


Those Who Wander

by Oblivian03



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Rangers (Tolkien)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-25 04:05:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16189715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oblivian03/pseuds/Oblivian03
Summary: 'All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost...' - the Company expands its number for a single night as they welcome several strangers to share their fire and goodwill. Bilbo, in turn, learns some truths about strange folk and their nature.





	Those Who Wander

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I, of course, do not own anything Tolkien related be it the Hobbit or Lord of the Rings or anything else the great man came up with. This is just for fun. 
> 
> Note this takes placed before Rivendell in The Hobbit, not long after the troll incident. It is based somewhat off both the movies and books. I've only tagged the Lord of the Ring's fandom because Rangers appear here and they don't appear (to my knowledge) in the Hobbit. It's a bit rough in quality, but it is what is it.

Bilbo stretched his feet out of in front of him and sighed contentedly. Though they had been riding for most of the day his hairy appendages seemed to ache on principle at the thought of the distance they must have travelled. Beside him Fili and Kili stretched as well, lazily throwing brotherly insults at each other. Across the camp Bofur had just flopped against his crazed cousin after both had spent the better part of an hour getting the now pleasantly glowing campfire to go. Now the toymaker's cheery, twanging accent floated in the air, this time pulling Nori into a light exchange of banter. Even Dwalin's usual glower had subsided as he watched his brother and king discuss the best way to proceed, his other eye kept simultaneously upon Thorin's nephews and the Company's surrounds.

It was an easy air that had settled about the camp, very different to the panic and fear experienced only several nights ago when they had been besot by trolls. Peaceful calm was certainly something that Bilbo was never going to take granted again. Nor was Gandalf's presence.

_Where is that blasted wizard?_ The hobbit then scolded himself for using such impolite language to describe his friend and a being that was his elder by many, many long years. Still, Bilbo could not help but feel uneasy as he took not of the wizard's absence once more.

A pony nickered from where their mounts were being tended by Ori, Dori and Gloin.

"When will the stew be ready?" Bofur suddenly called to where his kin was hovering over a large pot that had thankfully left alone along with the rest of their original camp the night of the troll fiasco.

Bombur grunted, focused on his task. "Soon."

And it would be soon, the armours of a hearty meal, if not a hobbit feast, beginning to waft about the camp. Bilbo's stomach rumbled at the thought.

Again he wondered where the Company's mystifying wizard was. No doubt Gandalf would be less than pleased should he miss their meal. Then again, who knew what went on in the ancient being's mind? _Riddles and words that make no sense and advice you have to figure out for yourself, that's what._

The hobbit jumped almost three feet in the air as said wizard suddenly came crashing through the trees lining the edge of the clearing they had made camp in, hat askew, staff in hand and eyes like thunder, as though he had heard Bilbo's thoughts and thought to answer them with perhaps more zeal than necessary.

"Make room at your fire," the wizard commanded. "There are men who are in dire need of comfort lest they should not last the night."

At the wizard's urgent entry more than several of the Company had stood to greet him on weary legs. At his words, however, several grew frowns upon their faces, wary to do as he asked. Even Bilbo, as welcoming as any decent hobbit was especially to those in need, found himself anxious at the suggestion of potentially dangerous strangers being accepted into their camp so soon after the near fatal debacle with the trolls.

Bombur quickly returned to stirring the stew bubbling in the pot before it bubble over.

"Do not mistake me, Gandalf," Thorin spoke in his rumbling voice. "If there are wounded men in need then I have no wish to turn them away. Yet, I must also see to the safety of this Company and we are weary from travel and have no wish to experience again an incident like the trolls. So I ask you now to be plain, are the men you speak of any danger to us?"

For his part, the grey wizard looked incredulous. Perhaps even murderous, Bilbo mused, at the suggestion he would willingly endanger those he travelled with.

"You think that I, Gandalf the Grey, who wandered these realms and fought its evils long before your kind was a babe in the rock, would bring murderers and thieves into your camp?" Gandalf thundered. Then he seemed to deflate, remembering who it was before him even if the worry did not leave his face. "Forgive me, Thorin. It is in your right and duty to ask. These men will pose no danger - they were caught up in a fight with orcs that ended not long ago. It had a happy end for no man died, yet there were casualties. One man was severely wounded. I fear he will not last the night if he is forced to sleep in some cold, shadowed nook of the Wild. They are too far a distance from any town of Men and it is too late an evening to seek help in any case. Your camp is closest to where the fight occurred. The men are tired and their injured companion needs immediate care that can be better provided here by your fire. You have my word they mean this company no harm."

Thorin's face had been blank as he listened to Gandalf's words. "Very well, on your word they may stay here the night, but in the morning is where we must part ways. We have our own journey to complete and we shall not be delayed by men."

The dwarf king fixed Gandalf with a stern gaze and the wizard inclined his head. "A night is all I ask and perhaps some aid as well, if you can spare it."

"Where are these men now?" Balin asked.

"They are following behind me," Gandalf said, ignoring the irate flame that flashed in Thorin's eyes. "Understandably, they were slower moving than I, but fear not. They will be here shortly."

"And of this battle with orcs? I take it you knew they were there," Thorin said, his voice now as irate as well. The leader had decided to drop the matter of Gandalf, bloody wizard of not, leading the men straight to their camp without so much as consulting him. It was already done and now would have to pass, but he would be discussing the issue later when they were on their way again. Yet, the remark about orcs had unsettled him and stoked further fire in his belly.

"I thought we would not run into them and I was right," Gandalf replied, his own voice growing stern. "They were a considerable distance from us and not focused on our scent throughout the day, and even the battle was a while away. The orcs were of no concern to you, but you can rest assured I most certainly would have told you if they were!"

"You should have told me in any case," Thorin rumbled, but he could elaborate no more for at that moment the men Gandalf had spoken of stumbled into the camp.

The first three were an interlinked lot, tall to the hobbit and dwarves gathered round but short to the wizard that stood by them. The one in the middle seemed to be limping, though not bleeding, supported on either arm by his battle-worn friends. Four more hurried in after, one with flaming red hair that Bilbo had never seen - even redder than his own ginger locks and that of Gloin and Bombur - and all erect though clearly harried by worry.

The strangers glanced around the camp and, at Gandalf's discrete nod, moved to stand respectfully at its edge waiting for the Company to move first. It was clear that they were tired, as the wizard had said, and mostly superficial cuts and bruises were scattered upon their flesh. Their clothes were a bit torn but mostly no worse for wear save the black blood upon it. Certainly none fit the urgency that Gandalf had spoken of. None fit the underlying meaning of the wizard's words that one would die if he were to not receive their help.

Then behind the first seven men came two more, towering above the others even as one sagged against the other in a fainting fit.

Bilbo tensed, knowing exactly who the dirtied men were. No good had ever been spoken in abundance of such folk with long green cloaks and wild hair, swords at their hips and strangeness in their faces, by those in the Shire or the towns of Men that lay immediately beyond. Criminals and cutthroats, lazy loafers and vagabonds - a few of the hundreds of names that followed Rangers wherever their long legs walked. Wild Men they were called, bred and raised by the North's savage wilderness. Now two were making their way into the Company's camp.

And how battered and weary they looked.

The hobbit blinked, aghast. Blood had clearly been pouring down the fainting one's side, his shirt now wet and glistening. The source was obscured by hastily torn clothing, no doubt a spare shirt or cloak, perhaps the only one between the two if Bilbo's knowledge of Rangers held any truth. There was no doubt the wound was severe. The grimness of the second Ranger only confirmed it.

The injured man's head lolled freely as the dark slits between his eyelids suddenly disappeared. It appeared that he had used the last of his energy to help his companion almost carry him to safety. Yet, even as the knees of the one supporting him buckled Gandalf was suddenly there, taking the extra weight and helping to gently lay the unconscious Ranger by the side of the fire.

"Oin," Thorin all but thundered, but there was no need for him to have done so. The healer was already moving towards the trio with his bag of medicine bouncing at his side.

The Ranger who was still conscious nodded as Oin settled by his side, but the piercing grey of his eyes still looked for Gandalf's own nod before allowing the dwarfish healer to touch his companion. Oin took no offence to this. His hands busied themselves with helping remove first the man's cloak and shirt, then undo the cloth binding the wound, comically small against the man's side of which was longer than the seven others without a green cloak and far longer than the side of any dwarf. The Ranger's hands that worked alongside Oin's only served to shrink the dwarf's further. The scars upon them were many.

"This will need to be sewn," the Company's healer said as blood gushed once more.

The Ranger beside him nodded again, taking up the thread and needle offered in his own hands, ignoring the aches that racked his own body as he knelt over his ailing friend. Gandalf hovered behind them, one eye to the wounded as he faced the other seven men with Thorin. A sharp look from the wizard was all it took for the apparent leader of the men - the fiery redhead - to step forth.

"My name is Ivor Finnson," he said with a bow. "These are my men and those two are strangers who helped us in a fight against the orcs. If you would, we humbly ask that you share your fire tonight so that we might rest before continuing home in the morning."

Thorin regarded him coolly, arms folded sternly against his chest. Yet his face was not as hard as Dwalin's behind him and the dwarf eventually nodded with all the face of a king.

"I am called Thorin Oakenshield and this is my Company," he answered. "You and your men, and the two you call strangers, may share our fire this night, but no longer. We have our own journey we have embarked on."

Ivor Finnson was smart enough to ask what journey this might be. Or mayhaps he was simply too exhausted, drooping as his eyelids were.

The rest of the introductions passed quickly, the man whose ankle had been twisted - not broken he had assured - taking a seat upon a log a little way from the fire where there was room enough for seven men to sit. Gloin had introduced his brother who still worked with the conscious Ranger over his unconscious friend. Even Bilbo had given his name, somewhat shyly answering the fascinated questions the men had posed to the only Halfling they had ever met.

"Don't break their dishes or they just might run you through with a knife," Bofur had laughed after quickly recounting his own experience of a hobbit hole.

Balin interrupted, clearing his throat. "Do you know the names of the two men who came to your aid?"

Ivor shook his head. "I do not or I would say. They are Rangers, that much I know."

"Of the roving folk," Balin mused.

"Aye."

"You say they came to your aid," Thorin said.

The red headed man nodded. "They did. Leapt out from nowhere but the shadows of the forest and set their steel upon the orcs without a word to anyone. In the nick of time too. I'd wager we would have ended up with more casualties if they had not come."

"And the orcs? Are they all dead?"

"Aye," Finnson said grimly. "Your wizard friend made sure of that."

Bilbo most certainly did not want to ask what that meant. He had seen Gandalf's power when he cracked the stone to petrify the trolls and he would place his own wager on that not being the full extent of the power that Gandalf the Grey wielded.

"How many?" Thorin rumbled.

"More than ten but less than twenty. I do not know for sure; there was no time to count."

"Fifteen by my counting," Gandalf broke in. If the wizard saw Thorin's look of ire at this than he said nothing, much like wizards were wont to do.

Ivor Finnson, meanwhile, loosed a shaky sigh. "Could have ended a lot worse, then. Luck smiled on us, however, and only that Ranger was wounded more severely than a twisted ankle."

"How severe was this Ranger's wound?"

"I know not. That is a question for his friend. He was the one to treat it."

"You did not offer help?" Gandalf asked incredulously.

"I was occupied trying to ensure no orcs were following us," Ivor snapped. Then he shrugged. "In any case, they did not ask for it. Figured they would manage on their own as they often seem to do. Them Rangers are a strange folk. Dangerous and wild, wandering everywhere as they do for no good reason. Call me a simple man, but best leave them to their own devices if you ask me. Everyone will be the more happier for it."

Thorin frowned. "They are dangerous then?"

"Perhaps." The man shook his head. "They come from the wild. They are alright when in civilised company, and while gossip always carries its own rumours, I have heard no bad things from any who have met them in town when I've asked after them. Indeed, I've heard a few good things of strangers mending fences or returning a lost horse and often they've a story to tell in the inns they gather in. Most of the time they leave quietly enough when it is made clear they are not wanted. But to trust them-"

"No wise man would trust a stranger no matter _who_ he was," Gandalf cut in. For a moment his eyes seemed to flash with anger, but this went missed by all but Bilbo.

"Aye," Ivor Finnson agreed, ignorant. "And Rangers… They are always strangers no matter how much you think you might know of them. Strange men with strange ways." He shuddered. "Best leave them be, I say."

Thorin nodded but said no more. It was hard to tell if he agreed with the words the red headed man had spoken or thought anything of them at all.

For a while after, a kind of silence fell about the camp. The seven men who were not Rangers crowded themselves in one corner, Ivor Finnson beginning a murmured conversation with another older man that was, when Bilbo strained his ears to hear, mainly about the attack and how they needed to alert those in their village. The dwarves had grown more silent too, although Bofur interacted with the men every so often as his friendly nature bid him to do. Fili, too, spoke to the men, sometimes asking curious questions as Kili listened in, Dwalin now seated between the two with his glower back in place. Likewise, Ori listened to the answers of the more amiably natured men, every so often jotting notes down in the journal he carried and shyly asking a question of his own. Even Bilbo found himself dragged into the strange exchange of words, once more finding himself answering questions about the life of hobbits.

No more did Balin and Thorin discuss their plans, however, instead watching the strangers and the younger - and Halfling - members of the Company carefully along with the other more battle hardened dwarves. Oin too ignored the seven men, instead focused upon the one he was tending with the other Ranger working silently by his side. Surprisingly Gandalf ignored the others in favour of these two men as well.

The wizard hovered like a bad stench over a carcass - perhaps not the right description to use given the situation at hand - as he watched the conscious Ranger bind his friend's wound once more, this time a line of neat stitches disappearing behind the bandages Oin had graciously provided. He continued to watch as the Ranger then called softly to his friend in a voice that Bilbo could not hear. But call as the tall man did, the other did not wake.

"All will be well, my friend," Gandalf said quietly as a wizened, yet still strong hand hovered over the despondent man's shoulder.

It was Bombur's clearing throat that finally drew Bilbo's attention away from the scene as Oin wandered off to the other seven men, towing along his brother who held in his arms supplies that might be needed. The healer set about asking if his help was needed, at one point probing the foot of the man who had sprained his ankle and binding it well, but eventually Ivor waved him off with much thanks.

Meanwhile, Bofur had risen to help his round brother distribute the evening meal. Unlike the other nights where they causally circled the camp with the steaming stew, they paused looking at the new men. Ivor caught their gaze and grinned with a shake of his head.

There was no response from the Rangers.

"Worry not about sharing your food. We've eaten this morning and in the afternoon before we were attacked. I'm sure we men can survive a night without a meal," he said.

"Very well," Thorin replied from where he sat, the authority in his words commanding Bofur and Bombur to continue as usual in distributing the Company's dinner.

Bilbo accepted his bowl gratefully, blowing on the stew before consuming it. The dwarves had once more rearranged their seating, several sitting close to the ponies who were - as often of late since the trolls - closer to the camp than they had been at the start of the journey. Gandalf too had settled, sitting beside Bilbo as he took to smoking his pipe, keen eyes, despite flitting about the camp, ever coming back to the Rangers.

It was partly to avoid the smoked hoops now coming from Gandalf's pipe that Bilbo stood when the meal had finished to collect back the bowls, partly to do at least something to help the Company - even if he had helped to save them from the trolls, it was Gandalf who could claim the true mantel of rescuer and Bilbo was still left wondering if he could have done more, wondering at what might have happened had his courage failed him and he had done nothing at all...

But it had passed, as his father would have said, and now there was naught for him to do about it save to move on. _Although_ , Bilbo thought wryly, _he was speaking about me breaking a toy at the time._

Not for the first time the Halving wondered what his parents would say should they see him now in the company of wizards and dwarves and men. Not for the first time he wished they were there with him and he was not doing this alone as the only hobbit and untrained warrior in a company of numerous characters all stranger and better at fighting than him.

_But sometimes words could be better weapons than swords,_ Bilbo thought remembering what Gandalf had told him only a few short nights ago.

So the hobbit collected the bowls and stewed in his own thoughts and doubts, glancing every so often at the humans as he wandered about.

By now the men were talking more amongst themselves, settling down as they were to a bed upon the ground with the few spare blankets the Company could provide. Their conversation had shifted from the attack and interest in other races to the strange folk of their own race that were positioned closer to the fire, wondering at their ways and why they had leapt to their aid.

"I wouldn't have thought Rangers would be so willing to join in a fray," came the words of a boy-faced fellow. "The way me Pa speaks about them…"

Another shrugged. "Who knows what goes on in their strange heads?"

"Not me, that's for sure," a man stretched out upon the ground said. "Can't say that I would want to. Then again, I can't say that what they think is entirely unpleasant."

"Who cares what they think? At least those no-good vagabonds turned out to be of some use after all," one man sneered from his seat. "Not very good at fighting, though, if one of 'em got wounded."

"Aye, here we stand seven strong and not a dire wound among us," another laughed. "And there lies one whilst the only other squats above him like a dog."

By the fire Bilbo saw the conscious Ranger tense as though in anger. But not a word left the tall man's lips. For the life of him the hobbit could not think why. Even his folk, docile as they were, would leap to a harsh defence of their kindred if they were so unfairly and cruelly insulted. Whilst wounded no less. It was deplorable.

The words too seemed to stir something in the rest of the Company, all shifting where they were. It was a subtle thing, but to Bilbo's eyes a stark change in the atmosphere of the camp.

Where Ori had been writing diligently in his journal the quill he used pressed harder against the pages until it broke. Nori's spinning knives were turned to nail picking with a certain zealously they generally did not have. His elder brother's grumblings grew louder. By the cooking pot Bombur's stirring had begun to spill morsels of stew over the side until an unusually curt word from Bofur corrected him. Beside them, Bifur huffed and stared grimly up at the stars. Gloin's fists had clenched around the locket in them and Oin had suddenly removed his hearing trumpet, focusing instead on grinding plants in a bowl. The sound of metal being sharpened rung louder as Dwalin and Balin quickened the pace of the whetstones running down their weapons. Even Gandalf's smoking grew darker, rings becoming creatures to which Bilbo did not want to put a name let alone consider their existence.

The youngest two were the most obvious in their objection, Kili making to speak but stopped by Fili with a firm hand, his own blue eyes frowning at the men nonetheless. By contrast to his nephews, Thorin's change was the most subtle. His eyes had not opened nor his body moved from where it rested against a log. Yet, the air seemed to grow darker around the king as though he were remembering a time when he too had been subjected to such mockery.

But it was not their place to speak, Bilbo thought. This was a matter between Men and if the Ranger was content with no defence, than who were they to ruin that contentment and force one upon him?

Still, the atmosphere amongst the Company had shifted and the conscious Ranger, feeling it, shifted further still in front of his wounded friend in unease.

All of this went unnoticed by the men still speaking.

"Aye, useless wanders they are. Probably thieves too," the man who had first sneered said. "Be sure to keep your gold close lest it should be 'misplaced' during the night."

"It does not do to speak ill of an injured man," another, new voice chided, one of the older men. "Or one who leapt to our defence. They did help us after all and when it was of no benefit to them no less."

Bilbo felt a flare of hope for the kindness of Men spark in his chest once more.

"Let them be." Ivor Finnson seemed to be the one the six others deferred to, but his words, though firm, were not a true defence of the Rangers merely those of a leader playing the placating mediator to his men. "Best you all get sleep so we can unburden ourselves from this company early tomorrow morning. We have a way to travel back to the village and it is no use concerning yourselves with those Rangers and their strange doings. They are occupied as it is so your valuables should be safe. And if they are not, then those Rangers will answer to me."

The other men appeared sated by Ivor's promise, finally settled a small way from the fire and those around it. Their apparent leader turned to where Thorin sat.

"Please forgive them for their talk," he asked. "It has been a hard day."

The dwarf king simply nodded and the man, looking amusingly relieved, too settled down with his men to sleep.

"Humans," Gandalf muttered under his breath. Bilbo wasn't entirely sure if the way that the wizard had said it was with exasperation or annoyance. Certainly the wizard's gaze was concerned where it drifted to the two other strangers in the camp.

It seemed the hobbit was not the only one who had noticed this latter fact.

"And who are they?" Thorin asked of the wizard, nodding to where the wounded man laid with his companion still by his side, loyal to the last.

"We are of the Northern Rangers, as the man called Ivor Finnson said."

The unexpected and unfamiliar voice caused more than Bilbo to jump in surprise.

"So you do speak," Dwalin grunted.

"So you do speak, too," came the quick reply. "I would have thought your stone face mute."

Not even Bifur could keep Bofur on the log where they sat as the toymaker hooted with soundless laughter, unable to draw in a proper breath. Balin's grin was as wide as the two youths he sat beside, Fili and Kili game enough to prod Dwalin teasingly in his ribs. Bilbo wondered at the fact that neither had yet been strangled for the black look upon their victim's face.

The Ranger who had spoken too seemed to grin where he sat, a wan and ghostly thing on his worn and worried face.

"Some company you are, insulting your hosts," Gandalf chided not without his own smile.

The tall man looked up at the wizard than ducked his head, grey eyes catching in the fire's light. "My apologies. It has been a trying day and my mind is at its end. My manners are not what they should be."

"My brother will forgive you," Balin reassured. Whether or not Dwalin's grunt that swiftly followed was from a genuine desire to forgive or his brother's boot was debatable.

Still, Bilbo's eyes did not miss the way true anger failed to hold in the tattooed warriors countenance as he gazed upon the Rangers. Strangely, there seemed to dwell a sort of respect instead and a knowing that had Bilbo wanting to know what it was that Dwalin knew about the strangers.

But the thing - Bilbo didn't know _what_ it was and suspected that he never wanted to find out - that Dwalin threw at the still laughing Bofur was as hard as his stone face.

"Shut it, you bloody fool, before you wake Ivor Finnsin and his men," the burly dwarf hissed.

"I think you mean Finnson," Fili pointed out mildly as Bofur rubbed his side.

Dwalin shot him another black look and the blonde wisely shifted closer to where his uncle sat, the regal dwarf bearing an amused expression at the entire situation and more than likely at his good friend's expense.

"So you are both men who roam the Wild," Balin said to the stranger as he swatted his little brother's bald head, a stern look quelling any verbal protest.

The grey eyed man nodded, appearing to take to shyness again but for the way his attention turned to the hand he had pressed against his companion's forehead once more. Relief seemed to flash across his face, but his countenance quickly faded back to concern. Bilbo wondered if he had forgotten to breath for a moment, for when Gandalf pressed down a kindly hand on the man's shoulder he suddenly inhaled and turned to face him.

"I can help with the watch," the Ranger offered amongst the snores of the other men. "If you will allow me. I must stay awake in any case to care for my friend."

Gandalf smiled kindly at the man's worn and dirtied face. The wizard eyed where blood still covered his clothes and matted his hair, black and foul and orcish, but mixed with some red too. No doubt some of it was his own, minor wounds left untended in the wake of his comrade's own more severe injuries.

"Perhaps you yourself can take advantage of the company you find yourself in as your other fellow Men have and rest," the wizard said. If a wry smile twitched across both their lips, nothing was said. "You forget that I know you Ranger folk well. No doubt you did a great deal more fighting than they, and a great deal more travelling before that too, and you will have a great deal more to do come morning. I can tend to your friend for the night, if you wish. Unless you think my skills inadequate?"

The stranger shook his head. "I do not doubt your skills, dear wizard. Yet, I would feel amiss to take advantage of such graciously given comfort and not give anything in return. It would be cheating my hosts as it were and I am no cheat. I have not much else to give but my services, and if they are gladly accepted then I will gladly give them, tired or not."

Both turned to where Thorin sat, deferring to him to make a decision. It was clear in Gandalf's eyes what the wizard wanted. In contrast, the Ranger's own look was tired at best but no less determined for it. Yet, still it carried a cry for reprieve, a cry for some kindness in the world to relieve the burden that had laid itself upon the man's great shoulders, subtle and suppressed as it was.

"You are welcome to join our watch if that is your wish," the dwarf king finally said. "I am sure Dwalin and Gloin would find your company to their pleasure. If you should also wish to tend to yourself and rest, however, there is water in a container by the horses and a space for you by our fire. Oin and Gandalf would be more than capable of caring for your friend. You need not fear that he will pass should you sleep here."

The Ranger nodded. "You have my thanks."

"If I may ask, what is your name?" Balin said from across the fire. "I do not think you told us before, busy as you were, and I doubt any of what the others called you was your true name."

"My apologies for my neglect," the stranger said, abashed. "Usually I am not so lapse in these things."

Balin smiled. "It is of no matter. There were more pressing matters you had to attend to."

The tall man nodded again, but his face was still apologetic. "You may call me Halvor. My friend's name is Garoth."

"Halvor - it is a good name. Is that your true name?" Balin received no answer confirming or denying, but he took it in stride. "And where do you hail from, Halvor?"

"Here and there. From this forest and that."

"That is an interesting place indeed. I don't think I have ever heard of it."

"Ah, you must forgive him," Gandalf said with a smile. "His people are more wont to mystery and wary of strangers than even you dwarves, and for good reason too. Have no fear, however, if they truly are of their people than neither shall cut your throats with their knives in your sleep."

"I should hope not," Halvor said with a grin. "I left my knife in the skull of an orc a good distance from here. If I were to get it back now it would likely be as my own throat is being slit. Although, if that same orc were to slit my throat I would gladly accept the fate instead of facing such a horror."

"Thankfully orcs, as treacherous as they are, are not undead beings," Gandalf remarked.

"Aye," Bofur agreed from where he sat. "Even if they look the part."

"Come now, they are not that horrible." The twinkle in Gandalf's eye spoke of mischief and merriment. It did not take much to urge the toymaker on.

Bofur laughed. "True. There are others by far worse looking, like Dwalin."

"Did you just compare me to an orc?" the tattooed dwarf in question growled.

"Did I say orc?"

Dwalin grit his teeth. "You did just then."

"But not before!" Bofur waggled his eyebrows, ever playing the merry fool. "You should learn to listen before you jump to conclusions."

And Dwalin never was going to win this battle of wits and words, Bilbo mused. No one ever did when it was against Bofur save Gandalf, the only other one in the Company who was as clever when he spoke, or Thorin who simply refused to speak at all and glared. That said, it was admirable that the bald dwarf did not give up trying.

"You should learn to respect those who wield an axe better than you," the warrior said.

"Why bring axes into a battle of wits? Afraid that you can't win?"

Now the Company burglar stifled a snort. No doubt if they were not hosting guests round their fire a fight would have broken out with Bofur ending up the worst off, but still teasing merrily away. As it was, the youngest two of the Durin line had succumbed already to the silent shakes that silent laughter brought. Even Balin and Thorin were smiling, although Dori simply rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath.

Then Garoth groaned. The other Ranger was at his side in an instant having never truly left it.

"Garoth?" he called. "My friend, can you hear me? Open your eyes."

And that was all Bilbo understood. The man slipped into another language, his tone never changing but his voice softening so that the others strained to hear. Every now and then a westron word or two would break through, but it was a lyrical tongue that Halvor used.

_Elvish_ , the hobbit realised with surprise. Or at least what he recognised of it from Gandalf's more sardonic mutterings to himself. But the Rangers both had rounded ears and their features, whilst not orc or Dwalin ugly, were not as fair as many a story of elves had promised. _Curious…_

It made him wonder just who these strange folk were and how it was that Gandalf knew them.

Thorin, meanwhile, had tensed upon hearing the language, but Gandalf simply caught his eye. shrugged and smiled somewhat wanly, and Thorin let it go. These two travellers were not his rivals nor his enemies, simply two men in dire need of rest and comfort and kind companionship.

Oin by now had returned to hover by Halvor and the stirring Garoth. The healer stayed his hand, however, waiting as Halvor tried to rouse his friend. For a moment it appeared as though his pleadings would be answered and Garoth would wake, the unconscious man stirring more restlessly where he laid. And for a moment the man did, grey strips suddenly appearing behind parted eyelids. Then they were gone and Garoth groaned in no small amount of pain.

"Give him this," Oin said, pushing a container into Halvor's hands.

But the Ranger had already pulled a small flask into his hands and was trying to coax his wounded companion to drink. He was successful, but only just and soon enough Gandalf bent to gently place his hand against Garoth's forehead. The man, whose thrashing had only grown in his continuing dalliance with consciousness, suddenly fell limp

Halvor swore, cursing at the world in general for the fate that had befallen his friend as he quickly leaned back in. The descent of Gandalf's calming hand on his shoulder, however, stopped him.

"Fear not, my friend. He is resting more easily now," the wizard said. "It is rest he needs most now."

Halvor nodded, but the worry still lingered on his face all the same. A shaky hand ran itself down his haggard face as he sat back upon his haunches.

"How did he get hurt?" Bofur asked, his wide eyes trained on the unconscious Ranger.

"By taking a sword meant for another who did not see." There was a quiet fury beneath the words as well as a fondness. "We had been fighting only earlier today and, already exhausted, he made a mistake and failed to parry the blow."

The toymaker looked aghast, and he was not the only one. "Do they know he was struck while defending one of them?"

"If they do, most do not let on." The man sighed. "It is of no matter; it is what it is. They fear us and we lived up to their fear, already covered in blood as we were when we leapt to join their fray. Perhaps we are as dangerous as they say after all."

Teeth glinted in the fire's light as they struck a wry grin.

Bofur gave a grin of his own. "More likely you lead a dangerous life. I like an adventure as much as the next dwarf, but two fights in one day is one too many for me."

Halvor gave a short bark of laughter, his solemn mood already lifting. It was a strange talent that Bofur possessed, Bilbo had observed, to lift the mood of almost anyone from abject misery to joy with ease. That was a kind of magic even Gandalf did not command.

"No, give me a tankard of ale any day over any sword be it black or broken or newly forged of virgin gold," Bofur sang, his accent twanging pleasantly in the air.

Bifur, meanwhile, had wandered over to where Halvor still knelt and offered him a bowl. Bilbo realised it was full of water and that the dwarf must have strode off to where the company kept a container for their mounts sometime during the conversation. That he went unnoticed by the hobbit was not unusual although it was disconcerting. Mad as he seemed to be to anyone speaking the common tongue or any tongue not Khuzdul, the hulking dwarf had an ability to almost disappear into the background.

The Ranger accepted the water almost unconsciously, still enchanted by Bofur's magic. And maybe that had been planned, the Company's burglar mused, for one to distract while the other gently prompted the man to finally tend to his own battered self.

"Have you ever heard of miners' Itching Woe?" Bofur asked their guest who promptly shook his head, droplets of water that had just been flung onto his face swiftly flung off again by the movement.

"I have not," Halvor said.

Bofur grinned as Nori groaned. "Then you're in for a treat. Have I got a story to tell!"

"Do not flatter yourself," Nori said. "You tell it every night."

"He tells every story every night," Dori complained. "The same one over and over. Only he changes the names of the heroes in it."

"He does not!" cried Kili, ever ready to leap to the defense of the story maker. Beside him his brother tried to keep from laughing sparking his younger sibling's mock irate attention.

"Aye, young Kili is right," Gandalf spoke from where he sat smoking. Bilbo wondered for a moment if he ever tired of it. Or if he had ever stopped and was simply keeping the same pipe burning away for years and years and years. "I am as old as the mountains and even I have not heard every tall fable that comes out of that fool's mad mouth! Although 'The Itching Minors' is an old classic, if I do say so myself."

Waving off the jests, Bofur fixed his attention on Halvor once more. "There is an itching that plagues all dwarfish miners who dare strike out in the dark to find gold or silver or any ore that we may. Some call it a disease, but curse would be more apt a name for the suffering it brings."

And, somehow, the fire that had been burning so brightly through the night already gone seemed to dim to a shadow of its former self at the toymaker's words. An eerie silence had settled over the waking camp, only a few of the Company daring to scoff or snort or roll their eyes at their comrade's theatrics. Bilbo himself, despite having heard the same story before, found himself entranced all the same by the horror the familiar words conjured.

"It was a grim day, it was, when that curse first struck and earned its name, the Itching Woe," Bofur continued in a voice that could make a mountain shiver. "Twelve miners had gone down into the mine with their pickaxes and hammers all in tow on their stout and sturdy shoulders, beards braided magnificently and a determined fire in their eyes. Down and down they went, deeper and deeper until they reached that place of such depth that rare a minor went. And still the twelve went on for they had heard a new vein of gold so pure it could make stone weep."

The air had chilled, stifled itself to mimic that of night or perhaps of a cave residing in the very heart of a mountain. It was almost as suffocating as it was dark, flames of orange-red flickering through the shadows like it was gold being glimpsed ever so briefly at the end of a tunnel long and dangerous. Almost beautiful, but tantalisingly out of reach.

"Down they went, through the tunnels that had been built by dwarves long ago and abandoned for just as long," Bofur said, his brown eyes glinting. "Down they went, through the dark and cold and the dankness that greeted them at every turn. Down they went, the miners twelve, and each step brought them closer to that which they sought. And dwarves can be greedy creatures, obsessed with the riches that rest in the same stone which births them. And so too had become these dwarves, so much so that they ignored the whispers following behind them warning of a curse upon the gold.

"'Turn back,' the whispers said. 'Disturb not the metal where it rests lest you should wake the woe that plagues all who hack at that cavern wall.'

"But stubborn still were the dwarves with their eyes fixed upon their prize and they brushed away the warning. Down they went, further and further with every step they took, pickaxes on their shoulders and hammers in their hands. The one in front, Girik his name, scratched his neck and called them further on.

"'Turn back,' the whispers said again. 'Forget about this place lest you should wake the woe that strikes all memories of here permanently from your head.'

"But stubborn still were the dwarves with their eyes fixed upon their prize and they brushed away the warning still. Girik stepped first further on, the other eleven behind, each one raising their hand to scratch their face and leave the whispering behind. To each only thoughts of gold flew about their minds.

"'Turn back,' the whispers said once more. 'Leave your hopes behind lest you should wake the woe that takes such hope and turns them to despair.'

"But stubborn still were the dwarves with their eyes fixed upon their prize and they brushed away the warning one more time. The twelve miners continued on, one behind the other, hands about their tools then scratching at their faces. For what are whispers to dwarves filled with lust for gold? Nothing more than whispers that need not be listened to.

"'Turn back,' the whispers thundered. 'You were warned of this thrice and thrice you have forgone that warning. Now you will face the woe that your decision brings upon you.'

"And the minors paused as the tunnel shook around them. The thoughts of gold that held their minds quickly fled with fear snapping at its heels bringing new thoughts of them dead. Then the quaking stopped. A moment later Girik laughed and shook his head.

"'The whispers threats were-' he began but never ended. For a great itch had overtaken this dwarf so stout and sturdy, as it had the other miners who had journeyed with him to find the gold.

"It was a great itch, an extraordinary one that affected the dwarves first on their necks and their faces. Then across their bodies it spread as they tore at their beards and skin, their fingers becoming bloody from all the itching they were doing. Soon the very tips of their fingers and the tips of their toes were itching too. And how those twelve miners cursed aloud their woe as the whispers laughed around them and they itched themselves dead."

With that ghastly image in his head, Bilbo stretched his feet and fiddled with the hair located in generous tuffs on top. Still, the hobbit doubted that Bofur's somewhat overzealous story would give him nightmares as it had the first time he had heard it told. If there was one thing that was good about its repetition, it was that 'The Itching Minors' lost its sleep stealing effect with every recounting.

Still, Bilbo could not help but shudder as a sudden itch took up in his toe.

"That was a well told story," Halvor complimented. "An interesting curse as well."

"Pah. What curse? There were stinging nettles in their beards," Gloin broke in, continuing the same argument that had occurred every time the story had been told.

Bofur huffed at him. "Must you try and explain everything away? In the story it is a curse, my Ranger friend, and don't let this non-believer tell you otherwise."

Halvor simply smiled, setting aside the bowl of now thoroughly dirtied water. Throughout the story where Bilbo had been stilled there man had not and had continued to wash his face, hands and forearms free of the gore upon them. Towards the end he had removed and dipped the silver clasp that held his cloak into the water as well, and Garoth's too, dutifully cleaning the only trinkets they seemed to possess.

"A curse can be a wicked thing," Gandalf mused from where he sat. "Sometimes great and sometimes not there at all, ensnaring fools and careless folk and folk who are not prone to being fools but are foolhardy but for a moment. There are many curses and many fools. Yet sometimes it takes a fool to break a curse."

"Aye," Halvor softly agreed.

And, clean faced, the Ranger seemed a little less weary and a little less grim. Mayhaps he seemed not so wild as well, but more like a man who belonged to vast lands and noble banners, not a king but perhaps a king's good man. Then again, Bilbo chided himself, what king's man would ever be found wandering so in clothes that would have had his mother throwing great fits of fury?

The hobbit shook his head and closed his eyes for a brief moment. The late hours was getting to him as well as the weariness of adventuring and how thoroughly he missed his home.

"They were stinging nettles I tell you!" Gloin defended. "In the beginning of the story, which you 'forgot' to tell, the miners got some in their beards when wandering about a meadow or forest and then failed to clean them upon return to their home. My wife uses the story to warn our lad, Gimli, about why he needs to care for his beard and hair."

"Aye," Fili agreed. "Our mother told us the same story for the same reasons."

"I think she once told the same story to Uncle too, when she was scolding him for being a fool that time he came back from visiting some dwarves further off in the mountains with a rash all over his neck," Kili mused beside him, deep in memory.

If Thorin had turned a little red then no one saw or mentioned it, aside from Balin who was subtly smirking - an unusual expression for the old dwarf - and Dwalin whose smirk was far more obvious. The Company leader ignored them both, seeming relieved when the conversation turned elsewhere as Bofur waved derisively at those who had spoken.

"None of you appreciate a good mystery," the toymaker complained. "How would anyone quake and tremble at such stories if the great foe turned out to be a plant?"

"I remember you cursing quite creatively when you fell in a patch of that plant near the beginning of our journey," Bombur pointed out to his kinsman's humrph.

"Aye, stinging nettles can be a true menace," Halvor said. "Anyone who has travelled Middle Earth would know, is that not true Gandalf?"

"I know, for one, have never been stung," the wizard replied in a haughty sort of way.

The Ranger raised an eyebrow. "How did that come to be?"

"I am not so clumsy as other travelling men I know."

"And why is that?"

"That would be because of the wisdom I have gained from of all the years I lived."

"And what years would they be? Great or few in number?"

"Great, of course!" Gandalf declared. "Do you think such a child as yourself would be so wise as me?"

"Forgive my question, but it was well founded. You are never in one mind about your age, dear wizard," Halvor accused good-naturedly. "And always to your advantage. When someone calls you old you claim a body and mind as spry as a sapling tree, but whenever good folk seek to put that 'spry' body to good use suddenly you become an old and decrepit man again. You are a wicked trickster to say the least."

Those of the Company seemed to hold their breath. No one had ever truly braved Gandalf's wrath by insulting him so plainly even if it was in jest. Though the wizard could be airheaded at times, he was a formidable foe and had earned every scrap of the respect he had gained from friend and foe alike. Even Thorin looked mildly concerned for the sanity of the Ranger who had spoken. Gandalf, however, almost looked abashed. Yet, he tapped his nose all the same.

"It is the right of all those as ancient as me to use their senility to their own ends," he said.

Halvor snorted. "You are as senile as my left boot."

"I think I would rather be compared to an orc than that stinking, old thing you call a boot," Gandalf objected, looking rather affronted. "It has probably been on your foot for your entire life."

"Aye, and my father's before me."

For some reason, the wizard looked particularly horrified at the thought. Even more so than one should ordinarily be. Bilbo could only shake his head. True men lived lives of length, but that length usually did not match that attained to the lives of hobbits or dwarves. Besides the man looked barely old, just past the cusp of his youth - thirty if Bilbo were to hazard a guess. It was befuddling to say the least, but amusing all the same.

"Surely you, who has lived so long and seen so much, cannot be so put upon by the thought of a mere boot," Halvor laughed. "Where is the fabled power of the great wizard, Gandalf the Grey? Do not tell me you have lost it."

"And for that impudent comment I do believe you now owe us a song."

"Surely not!" the grey-eyed man cried as loud as he dared with other sleeping men close by.

"Come now," Gandalf said. "I have heard you sing before in other camps smaller but no less cheery than this one. You have a fair voice, though I admit you are no elvish minstrel."

'Aye," Thorin agreed slowly, speaking for the first time in a while. "Perhaps you could share a song if you still insist on giving us your services, and then those who are not part of the first watch can retire to bed. You too, if you would prefer. We all must rise early and I think we've tarried long enough this night."

There was little that could be disagreed with in that statement when both a king and a wizard agreed, not even for a man that traversed the unforgiving, unrelenting Wilds. So Halvor drew a breath, and as the Company stilled and quieted, began:

"I flew across the land, not by horse and not by boat,

but by my longshanks fairly long in my old deerskin coat.

I wandered everywhere as Rangers are wont to do,

and though on this road I remain, I think only of you.

O, my dear, my dear, back at home longing after wild men,

how do you bear that wearisome load?

And my dear, my dear, worry not for soon I shall come home

back from my wanderings afar cold and all alone."

And so sang the Ranger in his weary voice, slow and soft and clear. It was a simple tune that the man carried, the notes falling on one line only to rise on the next. Over and over, falling and rising again and again and again, like a spell that had been cast upon the air and all who listened. It spoke very much of a man and a people who had spent their lives falling and rising from good to bad then good again. And mayhaps that was why the dwarves round the fire were so silent, brooding in memories long gone and those that were soon to come.

There was a loneliness to the words that were sung. A sense of hope lurking there too. Bilbo wondered if indeed there was a dear for Halvor waiting somewhere yonder for his safe return, just as he had wondered if there was a dear for Gandalf each time the wizard had passed through the Shire, just as he wondered if there was a dear for the other dwarves like he knew there were for Gloin - a wife and son - and for Fili, Kili and Thorin - a mother and sister. Of himself he knew waiting for him were friends and family, and a hobbit hole with a warm bed and hearty food and a crackling fire not so unlike the one in the center of the camp.

Not for the first time Bilbo felt an overwhelming sense of longing for his home. _How much more must the dwarves feel for their lost one?_

"Well," said Gloin, the first to break the silence. "You are certainly a better singer than that lout."

Bofur pulled a face, then a good-natured grin at the other's gesturing to him. Bifur rumbled in an amused agreement, saying something which had his cousin swatting his arm.

"My voice is not that bad!" the toymaker cried.

"Thank you for your song," Balin said kindly to Halvor.

The man simply nodded and turned adjust his cloak around Garoth's shoulders.

"My voice is not like a toad's on a wet day! Rather, it is like the reeds that sometimes whistle when the wind passes through them, a pleasant sound to say the least."

"Are you sure?"

" _Nori-_ "

"Enough of that," Thorin barked amongst the other tittering voices of the Company. "Dwalin, Gloin, you have the first watch. Balin and Bifur have the next. The rest of you to bed!"

And like there had been no chance for Halvor to deny singing, there was no chance for the Company now - Gandalf included - to deny taking their rest. What Thorin Oakenshield commanded Thorin Oakenshield expected to be obeyed, at least by those of the Company that followed him.

Bilbo laid out his sleeping roll as the dwarves bustled about quietly, finishing the last of conversations before slipping beneath their own blankets. Bombur was the first to be lulled to sleep, Kili and Fili quickly following where they laid by their uncle's side. The dwarfish king watched them with a curious expression upon his face, one mixed with both fondness and sorrow and fear. It was a private moment and Bilbo quickly looked away, ashamed even then to have witnessed the brief glimpse he did. No doubt that Thorin would be the last to sleep of the dwarves, ever watching over the rest as he brooded over throughs secreted away, waiting to ensure that the others had fallen asleep before he took his own place in the embrace of repose.

Balin, too, would be among the last to dream that night, speaking softly to his younger brother as he now was, likely parting advice and warnings that the other merely accepted with a fond, if somewhat amused, look on his face. If it was on any night when his brother was not on watch the white bearded dwarf would have been among the first to sleep. Bifur, however, was and had fallen asleep almost as quickly as the roundest of the Company. His cousin watched over him with his own fond look, tucking in the crazed dwarf and their ginger kin before he settled down to watch the stars with thoughts, for once silent, dancing behind his eyes. Of the Company, it was this member who formed the second party to those who typically slept the latest or not at all. For Thorin it was duty and brooding that kept him up. For Bofur, thoughts that would not cease. Yet, it the pair never talked to each other, although they no doubt knew the other was awake. And rarely did they talk to those who had the watch. It seemed it was solitude that the two looked for in the quiet of the night, a time to sort through the things in their heads and hearts. But who was Bilbo to begrudge or chide them? He too had had his sleepless nights.

By now Ori had also closed his eyes after being nagged by his own older brother to put down his book and sleep, Dori swiftly following own advice with Nori not far behind him as much as he ever did, perhaps the lightest sleeper of the lot. It was certainly a sight to see, each robust dwarf quieting to the world of dreams as Oin laid down a bowl by his bedroll as he crept within it, as Balin finally settled to Dwalin's fond grumblings and Bofur finally closed his brown eyes. And watching these last too, Bilbo settled as well, imagining Thorin's breathing evening out as Gandalf contorted his deceptively old form to fit the unyielding ground.

Now only four were not truly sleeping, three waking and on watch - two for danger and one over the fourth whose sleep was more unconsciousness than rest. And Bilbo made a fifth, though he too was quickly finding himself pulled by that ever enticing lull in consciousness.

Perhaps this night his dreams would not be so full of trolls. Or face-melting dragons.

Peering out from between his lashes, the hobbit watched as Gloin and Dwalin sat by the edge of the camp's fire. The former was staring out into the dark as any good watcher would, looking for forms that weren't there. The latter, however, was looking at where Halvor sat quietly fussing about his prone companion.

The bald dwarf settled his axes by his side. "You are warriors, are you not?"

This was the first that such a notion had been raised and it Bilbo found his mind pulled from sleep although his eyes remained mostly closed, the suggestion catching him off guard. But perhaps it should not have. The swords the Rangers had carried were fierce enough for any who bore such a name.

Halvor too seemed surprised at first before relaxing his face into a grin as he looked at the dwarf who had spoken. "I am a Ranger, friend."

"Aye. You have said." Dwalin was silent for a moment before he spoke again. "You have the countenance of a warrior. The eyes of one too. You have seen some terrible fights."

It was not a question.

"Perhaps not to the same scale as you," Halvor said. "I have heard of Moria, heard of what happened there."

"That battle was doomed from the start," Dwalin growled. The topic was left to lie in the dust.

"You are from somewhere in the mountains, I take it," the Ranger finally said.

"Aye, here and there. From this mountain and that."

Instead of frowning, Halvor grinned again. "I have not had a good jest aimed at me in ages and now, tonight, I've been victim to an abundance! Garoth is a good friend, but he is as grim and humourless as they come even when not unconscious. Life wandering can grow dreary in that sort of company."

"It must be lonely," Gloin said as he watched his brother stretch in his sleep.

"It is what it is," the Ranger said a second time. "And it is not always so bad."

He looked fondly at where Garoth lay, worry once more dulling the brightness of his grey eyes. It seemed more words came to his tongue, but the tall man did not say them. They did not need to be said to be understood in any case. To Bilbo their meaning was clear in the lines of Halvor's face, a face so worn for a man whose youth was surely not too far behind him. The lines spoke of a want for something more, for something safer and less worrisome, something where kindness was not a rarity from strangers.

Guilt swelled up in the pit of the hobbit's belly. He himself had never treated a Ranger with cruelty or indifference, mainly as he had never yet met one until now - although he hoped he never would have treated one as such - but the thoughts that permenated throughout the Shire and surrounding towns had too filled his own head. Not every thought, but enough. Thieves and cutthroats and loafers, beggars that drained what resources people had without offering anything in return, dangerous Wild Men - unfair thoughts, each and every one of them, to the amiable, weary man and his wounded companion across from him.

Bilbo shifted where he lay in his bedroll, trying to find some comfort on the hard rock. Oh, he still missed his soft bed back at home, but now he was growing used to the ground. Even so, it was hard to complain when only feet away another lay stiller on the same ground struggling to live through the night.

It was Gloin who broke the wordless silence that had settled over the camp, speaking over the snores of the sleeping. "Those men do not care for you at all. Some of their words were cruel."

Halvor shrugged. "They have not been the worst I've received. And cruel words are always better than being denied entry to a town when in need or any sort of violence; once or twice I have had stones thrown at me. Although Garoth once had a pitchfork lobbed at him, which he doesn't have to be so smug about. Not like he's the only one that has happened to..."

The admission was another kind of horror for those listening in itself, never mind the uncaring tone that bore it.

"Why did you not defend yourself and your friend against them?" Gloin asked.

"What was there to say? I would not have changed their minds about my kind no matter what I said."

"Perhaps you could have-"

"What? Made them fear us less? Made them less suspicious?" Halvor shook his head. "They are simple folk and we are not, not in their eyes and not in ours. We have secrets that we cannot share and knowledge that we dare not, and we roam everywhere in the Wilds because we must. Those are not the sort of men that townsfolk want in their homes, the suspicious vagabonds that they think we are."

"So they fear you because you wander." Dwalin's face looked grim.

"Not all those who wander are lost or homeless," Halvor said quietly. "Not all who seem worthless are."

And if the ghostly echo of sneered words had still dared linger in the air they lingered no more, cut down by the quiet strength in the Ranger's voice.

For a moment Bilbo thought the piercing grey gaze was fixed on him, as though it had read his deepest doubts and questions of himself. It was enough to make the little hobbit's skin prickle in unease. And the thought of those eyes themselves, glinting a silver-grey in the fire's light to match a silver star on the man's breast...

He didn't know why but the Company burglar knew those eyes were old. Not the man's per say, but the eyes he had inherited from whomever had sired and birthed him. Old and deep and silver-bright, like they were rooted in legends spun about great men who weren't quite giants. The eyes were not those of elves, but they may as well have been, Bilbo thought, if they belonged to stories that contained them.

"There is little thanks for what we do, little understanding for who we are, but it is better that way," Halvor continued, his voice as quiet as before but his words growing stronger, grimmer. "We do what needs to be done and we will not shirk from our duty. If we are jeered at and turned away when in need than so be it. It is what it is and we'll not shirk from our duty. Evil lurks in these lands as you know full well. To most it is but a story, something to keep their children in line. To us it is a life, something to defend against and keep those others safe from."

"And if the people were to know they weren't so safe, then the people might panic and never come to their senses again," Gloin mused.

"Aye," the Ranger agreed. "Better to leave them to their peace and be the wild stranger that wanders through it. I will endure cruelty if I must, but evil I will not."

The seriousness of Halvor's words sent a thrill down Bilbo's spine. It was not a pleasant thrill, distinctly unpleasant in its nature as it was, made up of fear and horror and that most ugly trepidation.

He had thought not of evil things like trolls and dragons as a child, had thought them nothing but stories even if he wondered at their existence in the odd passing hour late at night when shadows turned to witch kings and the scrap of a branch on a window was a goblin at his door to kill him. The hobbit disliked, like all hobbit folk, being scared and such thoughts were beyond scary. So he avoided them, or had until Bofur had mentioned that blasted dragon and its flesh melting breath. Even then, he had later forgotten, caught up in the excitement of adventure.

Until the trolls, that was. But even then...

Never had he considered what it was that Rangers did. Never had he thought much of them save for the mumblings that were passed around from folk who knew a hobbit who knew a man who knew a boy who knew an innkeeper who knew a stable hand who had heard someone mention that a Ranger had wandered along the same path where a hunter had been murdered the day before. Vagabonds and criminals and uncivilised brutes were how the whisperings went behind green cloaked backs. Yet, it was not so, not by Halvor's word. That the Rangers, those men who now seemed not so wild, were defenders, protectors, warriors even-

Bilbo, ever struggling to be brave, could not think what such a life would be.

"To defend no matter what until death does take you, as goes the warrior's oath," Dwalin remarked, stroking his axes in memory.

"As goes the warrior's idiocy. A life is a stupid thing to swear away. You never know when you might need one, dead as though you are inside."

Dwalin raised an eyebrow at Gloin, his face displeased. By his friend Halvor snorted.

"What?" the red bearded dwarf defended. "Bofur's not awake so someone had to say it."

"No one has to say what Bofur says, least of all Bofur himself," Dwalin growled.

"You're merely mad that he managed to compare you to an orc and avoid being beaten into the ground for it."

"Who says he avoided such a beating? We have a long way to travel still."

By now Halvor's snort had turned into a quiet chuckle. Still, it was hard to tell if he was amused at what was being said or merely the company he was keeping.

"Where is it you travel to?" he asked finally when the bickering began to die away.

The guarded expressions that slammed upon the dwarves' faces seemed slightly looser than usual, a soft friendship budding in their eyes alongside the usual wariness. Halvor, surprisingly, or perhaps not so, was not put off.

"Here and there then, I take it," he said still amused.

Dwalin grunted. "Home."

There was a stark longing in the word that none still in the waking world missed.

"You have traveled far from it then?"

"And wandered further still," the tattooed warrior answered. "Not by our own choice."

"Aye, there is nothing worse to a wanderer than sickness for one's home," Halvor said sagely.

"Worse still is if you cannot return to it," Gloin replied.

Halvor nodded his head in acknowledgement. "A stolen home is one of the greatest evils there is."

"And what are the others?" Dwalin asked, his eyes glinting in the fire's light. "What other great evils exist? You speak as though you know much about this, yet say nothing on it. What is the oath you say you keep?"

But Halvor did not answer.

"Ah," the bald dwarf laughed. "That ruddy wizard was right. You are more mysterious than my own kin, and I've cousins who would, if they could, speak not a word of anything to anyone not a dwarf!"

"Nay," the tall man replied good-naturedly. "I am no more mysterious than you with your here-ing and there-ing from mountains to home."

"That is more than we know of you." The smile could be heard Dwalin's words.

"Aye," Gloin agreed. "You who is 'here-ing and there-ing', as you put it, from anywhere to anywhere with your mysterious oaths and mysterious words."

The Ranger laughed. "I am a wanderer. Anywhere is where I'm always found."

He turned to where Garoth lay, ending the conversation as he inspected his friend. A worried look had returned to his face, lips twitching down in displeasure as he noted the stillness of his friend and a growing heat on his forehead.

"My brother, Oin, left something for your friend should he catch a fever," Gloin spoke suddenly, watching the pair of Rangers with careful eyes.

"Give my thanks to him when he wakes," Halvor said simply.

Dwalin shifted. "You'll not be staying until morning, then?"

The tall man did not answer. Instead his grey eyes flicked around the camp for what Gloin had spoken of.

"In the bowl beside him," the red bearded dwarf finally said, pointing the object out. "I think Oin usually ensures his patients drink the entire bowlful. Helps to stave off a fever before it can truly start."

Halvor nodded his thanks before standing.

On his bedroll, Bilbo's breath seemed to catch in his chest. The man looked even taller when the hobbit was laying down, long legs extending forever to the trunk of a body that rose up even further. It took but several strides of those same long legs to get to where the Ranger was going.

Stooping down, Halvor collected some water from the container by the ponies in a flask by his side. Deliberating for a moment, he quickly scooped some more up in his great hand and sipped it, splashing the rest over his exhausted face as though to keep himself awake. Then he strode back, squatting once more at Garoth's sleeping side. A second and a ripped shirtsleeve that had Bilbo wincing later, a damp cloth had been placed on the wounded Ranger's forehead.

"Is he alright?" Dwalin asked.

"He will be." Still, the man's face was grim.

"Have you help where you are going?"

Once again, the question received no answer. Halvor rose again on his long legs, this time turning his head past Bilbo to where Oin slept and the bowl set beside him filled with a liquid of some sort. Then he turned to the two dwarves on first watch, flashing Gloin a grin before settling his piercing gaze on Dwalin.

"Fear not your foul looks, my stone-faced friend," the Ranger said to the speechless dwarf. "It is to my finding that those that look the foulest are often the most fair."

Then man wandered off to where Gloin had indicated, leaving the red bearded dwarf behind him struggling not to laugh lest he should wake the entire Company save Oin.

"Foul looks indeed," the other night's watcher muttered, scowling at where his brother had suddenly smiled in his sleep as though he had heard and agreed.

Bilbo was only too glad that the burly dwarf had not seen his own grin and scowled at him.

The hobbit quickly shut his eyes as a rustle of material glided over him, the edge of a dark green cloak brushing the tops of his curls. Large booted feet came down on the earth on the other side, striding over to where Oin and his work lay. Into those great hands the bowl was scooped. Then back across the camp those large legs strode.

That green cloak brushed once more over a figure strewn across the ground, a wizard's knuckles clenched around a wizard's staff shifting in response. Gandalf seemed to sigh, a resigned sound to Bilbo's ears.

"Sleep, stubborn Man. You will need it come dawn," he heard the wizard say softly as Halvor passed by him, the old being otherwise showing no signs he had woken.

"Perhaps in a while," Halvor quietly replied.

That seemed to satisfy the wizard and soon his snoring breaths took their place in the air once more.

Then the Ranger was passing back by him and Bilbo suddenly found himself drawing on his courage, his heart beating fiercely in his chest.

"Halvor?" he all but whispered.

Grey eyes looked down, a curiosity lit in them. "Yes?"

"I apologise for what the other men said. It was not right for them to do so," Bilbo answered.

Halvor shook his head. "Do not apologise for their rudeness, little Halfling. It is not yours for which to apologise." Then he smiled softly down at the small fellow, grey eyes bright like stars. "But I thank you all the same for your kindness. It means much to me, even if I cannot repay it."

"There is no need to repay kindness," Bilbo replied.

His thoughts turned to what Ivor Finnson had said, that knowing a lot about a Ranger still did not keep them from being strangers. The words could not be truer - an entire conversation overheard and a night spent by Halvor talking, and still Bilbo knew nothing about him. Even his name and that of his companion were subject to question. Only the amiable nature of the man had let itself be known, a truth that, as it were, could not be denied.

Yet, Ivor had been wrong as well, and Gandalf too in his talk of strangers. A stranger though as Halvor was, the hobbit who now met the Ranger's grey gaze trusted him immensely. Perhaps it was foolish, but perhaps it was not - Bilbo trusted him all the same.

Meanwhile, the tall man had simply nodded his head in acknowledgement to Bilbo's words then returned to where his friend was stirring, Oin's bowl now in hand. He began to speak in that strange mix of Westron and Elvish once more, soft and muted so as to not disturb the sleeping dwarves or men. It was like listening to music, quiet and flowing and melodic. At one point, a second, unfamiliar voice joined Halvor's, weak and in pain. To this sound and Dwalin's grumblings Bilbo drifted to sleep.

When he woke the next morning the two Rangers were gone.

The Company soon started packing, Dwalin taking particular delight in kicking Bofur awake. Several of the dwarves and one hobbit readied the ponies whilst Gandalf watched, idly drawing on his pipe and blowing rings of smoke through his nose. Soon enough the other seven men woke and began their own preparations to leave.

"Where have those bloody Rangers got to?" Ivor asked, looking around the clearing for the two absent men.

One of the other men shrugged. "Probably wandered off back into the wild to lick their wounds. Good riddance."

"I do hope that the one who was injured is alright," a third spoke up to a few murmurs of agreement. "It is dangerous to wander the wild in such a state."

"They are Rangers," Ivor Finnson said gruffly. "Somehow they always survive."

And that was all that was said of that.

It did not take long for the camp to well and truly disappear back to the packs from which it had come. The seven man thanked Gandalf and Thorin profusely for their hospitality then took their leave, the Company departing soon after.

Bilbo's thoughts strayed once more to the two strange folk and where they might be now. He hoped that Garoth would be alright, praying silently for his recovery and the health of the other. He prayed that they might wander home, if they indeed had one, and that he too would return to his as the Company moved onwards to reclaim a mountain said to be filled with gold but was far more precious to the dwarves who strove towards it.

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies if I've mangled any Middle Earth lore (I did my best). And any medical-based knowledge as I am not and probably never will be a doctor. The song also probably leaves much to be desired... Nevertheless, I hope you enjoyed reading it.


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